The cardigan and the revolution | thearticle

It was the 23 rd October 1956, an unusually sunny day in Budapest. My wife, Marianne, and I had been married for almost a year.  As we did every weekday,  we left home at the same time. She

headed off to the Technical University, where she was a third year chemistry student, while I took the tram to the Telecommunications Research Institute, where I worked. “Shall I wear a

cardigan?” Marianne asked, still at the door. I was not very good at answering questions of this sort. I paused. After a moment or two I said: “I think you should. It might be cold later.”

After a little more to-ing and fro-ing, Marianne decided not to wear a cardigan after all. By then we were both a little late and had to run.  My workplace was at the top of Rose Hill in

Buda. We had a beautiful view of Pest. I had just settled into my equations when Marianne rang.  “We are going out to the street,” she said in a rather brisk way.  “What do you mean, going

out?” I asked. “Don’t you have lectures?”  “I mean we are going out to demonstrate. We’re making all sorts of demands.” “What in particular?” l asked, still not believing that they were

going to demonstrate. We all knew full well that unauthorised demonstrations do not happen in a Communist country, as Hungary then was.  “We want fewer labs, better lunches and free

elections. We have 12 points. Just like the revolutionaries of 1848. I can’t read them out now, though. I’ve really got to move. My column is already out.” The excitement in her voice was

palpable. “I have an idea. We are going to the Parliament. We shall cross Bem Square. It is on our way. Come down to the square. We can meet there. OK?” This enthusiasm was catching. “I am

coming. I’m going to get some of my colleagues, though.” Then suddenly I froze. “You _ are _ being serious?” I asked. This isn’t some sort of joke? You are not having me on, are you?” “Of

course not,” she replied. “See you at Bem Square.”  It took about 25 minutes for me and two friends from the Institute to reach Bem Square. By then, there were a good few people there. In

fact, as we found out the next day, there were roughly 15,000 people. The crowd started to swarm towards the Margaret Bridge, over to the other side of the city, Pest. This is where the

Houses of Parliament stood on the banks of the Danube. The crowd was strong, as are all crowds of that size. There was total, mad, spontaneous chaos, yet we  moved as one. I allowed myself

to be dragged by the excited masses all the way to the Parliament. We got there at around midday. I had long since given up looking for Marianne. It was hopeless. She had to be somewhere.

Marianne had a matriarchal grandmother, Margit. Despite her advancing years (or maybe because of them), Margit ran the family like an Italian Nonna. Both her daughters, Marianne’s aunts,

were secretaries. One of them, Erzsébet, worked in the Parliament building.  Margit rang her: “Erzsikem [my little Elisabeth], the radio has just announced that students from the Technical

University are marching on the Parliament. If you are not too busy, may I ask you to go down, find Marianne, and tell her to come home. She has forgotten to take her cardigan. She will catch

a cold. Erzsi, please go down.” Erzsébet went to the window of her office in Parliament and looked out on the crowded square. “Mother, I would go down, but I wouldn’t be able to find

Marianne.”  Margit was not best pleased. Her suggestions did not tend to get ignored. “Why on earth do you refuse to go? She’s wearing her new blue blouse.” “It’s just that…er.. there must

be…” She trailed off, as the immensity of what she saw taking place before her began to sink in. “Mother, there must be a hundred thousand people here, maybe two hundred thousand.” Margit

ploughed on regardless. “Erzsikem, she will catch a cold.” Once again, it became clear that you do not say no to Margit. It is simply not part of the script.  “All right, mother, I shall

find her.” And with that she practically waltzed down the elegant staircase. “Thank you Erzsi, thank you,” her relieved mother said. Erzsi did go out into the throng. She could not look for

Marianne — that was not humanly possible — but at a time of uncertainty she felt the safest place was at home. So that’s where she headed, to face the music about abandoning her niece. She

spent the night with a friend whom she knew from Parliament. The friend lived opposite the Russian bookshop. They watched from the window the mob breaking into the shop, ransacking it,

throwing the books in the street and setting fire to them.  As for me: I went to see how men armed with welding machines cut down Stalin’s giant statue, leaving only his boots.  The

Hungarian revolution had started. A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the only publication that’s committed to covering every angle. We have an important contribution to make, one that’s

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